


Under-Recovery

by flyingblackhawk



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Brain Damage, F/M, Simmons angst, Simmons takes care of Fitz, post season 1 AU, roommates au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 09:43:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2463773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingblackhawk/pseuds/flyingblackhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz is happy with his life in his New York apartment, living with his roommate Jemma. Everything is perfect, except for the memory loss, and the blackouts, and the phone calls Jemma makes late at night when she thinks he can't hear her. She's hiding things from him, but Fitz doesn't know what, or why, and things could go south very quickly if he finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under-Recovery

Water. He can feel water all around him, pressing in on him, crushing him. His chest is burning - it feels like it’s caving in under the pressure to draw a breath, but he can’t, because he knows he’ll just breathe in water. He has to breathe. He can feel a hand on his neck, but that’s fading away, and all that’s left is water.

“Are you okay?”

Fitz opens his eyes. A jogger is standing on the path beside him, touching his shoulder. The man looks unnerved, and Fitz realises he’s been standing there for a solid couple of minutes, staring at nothing.

“Yeah,” he manages. “I’m fine. Sorry. I’m fine.”

The man gives him a dubious look, but jogs on. Fitz forces his feet to move again. He recognises the path he’s on, but when it forks, he can’t quite remember which way home is. The bags in his hands are heavy, and he looks down at them. Groceries. That’s what he was doing. How could he forget that? He shakes his head, and takes the right path. It leads him in a long circle all the way back to where he started, and after half an hour, he finally pulls out his phone. It takes him a few minutes to get the map function to work for him, but soon he is following it back to a familiar street. He sees his building, and the relief makes him smile.

The apartment is dark when Fitz unlocks the door. The sun is going down outside, and he flips on the lights, heading towards the kitchen. The groceries are heavy – he went a little overboard on the fruit this week. He unpacks the bags slowly and methodically in the kitchen, enjoying the vague satisfaction he gets whenever something slots right into place on the shelves. This is something he can do. This is easy.

He decides to make a stir-fry. He’s made that before, and he can just about remember the recipe. After a few minutes of solid effort, he sighs, and goes to fetch the laptop. A quick search yields an easy recipe, and he gathers the ingredients and begins to chop vegetables.

He hears the sound of the door opening, and a smile steals onto his face before he can stop it.

“Fitz?”

Jemma comes into the kitchen, and Fitz waves from inside the pantry.

“Hey,” he greets his roommate. She drops her bag by the door and goes straight to the kettle. Fitz frowns. It’s always the first clue that she’s had a bad day, making tea before she talks to him. He leans on the bench beside her, watching her hands as she makes the tea. Her fingers are deft and sure in their movements. Fitz is almost jealous, and he looks down at his own clumsy fingers, biting his lip.

“How was your day?” Jemma asks, once the kettle has boiled.

“Fine,” he responds, on autopilot. “I went to the library and read for a while, then I came back for lunch, then I went to get the groceries.”

She smiles. “You got the groceries?”

He shrugs. “You left a list.”

She looks relieved, and Fitz feels a warm sense of satisfaction at being able to do something for his friend. She wraps her hands around her mug and leans on the bench, glancing over his shoulder. He frowns, and looks around to see the bench covered in half-chopped vegetables.

“I’m making stir-fry,” he says, frowning. He can’t quite recall chopping those vegetables.

“Want some help?” she murmurs. She sips her tea, and he shakes his head.

“I’ve got it,” he insists. “I just… you’re not hungry right now, right?”

She laughs quietly, and squeezes his shoulder. Fitz automatically reaches up to cover her hand with his own, but she’s already pulled hers away.

“Take all the time you need,” she tells him. “Did anything else happen today?”

He turns back to the vegetables. “I’d better get started on these.”

“Fitz.”

He glances at her, and she’s got her stern face on.

“I’m fine,” he protests.

“Did you have an episode today?” she asks, drumming her fingers on her mug. Anxious tic. He’s not sure how he knows that, but he’s certain it means that she’s worried about something.

“I got lost in the park,” he admits. “On the way back from the supermarket. Not for long, though. I used the… map thing. On my phone.”

“You should have called me,” she sighs. “It’s good that you went to get groceries on your own, but it could have got dark while you were out. Then how would you have found your way home?”

“I got back,” he tries to reassure her. Her fingers are still drumming on her mug, and he can see her shifting as she stands there. The frown reappears on his brow, and he clasps his hands together. He hates making Jemma worried.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice quiet. “I didn’t mean to. I would have… I would have called, but… I wanted…”

“You wanted to get back on your own,” she supplies. “It’s okay.”

“You’re angry,” he mumbles.

“No,” she murmurs, reaching out for him again. “No, of course not, Fitz.”

He bites down on his lip. “I really didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

“Leo,” she says gently. “Come on, it’s alright. I’m not angry.”

He wrings his hands, hating how her brow is still creased. She sets her tea down and reaches out to wrap him in a gentle hug. Immediately, everything drains out of his head and he relaxes. She’s not angry. Everything is alright, as long as she’s here, and she’s happy.

“I’ll help you with that stir-fry,” she tells him, as she lets him go. Fitz resists the urge to hold her a little while longer, and hands her a second knife. They chop vegetables together in silence, and before long, their dinner is sizzling in a pan.

Jemma serves, and they take their plates to the little table by the window. Jemma eats in silence, and Fitz doesn’t interrupt her thoughts. He knows Jemma has a lot to think about. Much more than he does.

“When I got lost,” he says, eventually, dragging it out of himself, “I saw something. Like a daydream.”

He hates the way the worry immediately comes back to her eyes, and he almost stops himself from telling her.

“What was it?” she asks him. Fitz closes his eyes, holding up his hand to signal he needs a moment to remember. Jemma, patient as ever, waits.

“Water,” he says, at last. “I closed my eyes, and for a second I saw water everywhere. Like I was drowning.”

Jemma is looking at him, her focus somewhere else entirely. She shifts in her seat.

“The brain is a strange thing,” she murmurs.

“It was so real,” he tells her, leaning forward. Jemma shakes her head.

“You’d remember something like that if it had happened,” she says firmly. “You must have been watching a movie or reading something about water.”

“I can’t remember,” he replies, frowning. He gives up after a moment, and finishes his food in silence.

Jemma clears the plates and Fitz helps her wash up. He drifts into the living room afterwards, and switches on the television. Some banal reality show is on, and he settles down on the couch to watch in mild fascination. Americans are such a strange species.

In the kitchen, Jemma dries the dishes and puts them away, before slipping out of the apartment and into the hall. She moves towards the stairwell before pulling out her phone.

“Hello?”

“Sir,” she greets. Coulson sounds as though she’s just woken him up. “I hope this isn’t a bad time. I’m never sure where in the world you are at any given moment.”

“Simmons,” he says, his voice regaining some warmth. “It’s good to hear from you. Anything to report?”

“Nothing much,” she sighs, glancing over her shoulder at the closed door to the apartment. “He’s the same as ever, which I suppose could be worse. He’s still having episodes every couple of days. Memory loss, and disorientation, mostly. He’s getting better with his words, but it’s still tough going.”

Coulson’s sigh is static down the line. “Don’t lose hope.”

“I haven’t,” she retorts. “I won’t.”

“Don’t forget that you have resources at your disposal-”

“He needs _me,_ ” she interrupts. Once, she never would have thought of interrupting an authority figure. Now, she is tired, stressed and irritated, and she doesn’t need her boss insinuating that she can’t help her best friend recover from this trauma. “That’s enough.”

“Of course it is,” Coulson amends. “I just mean if you need any help.”

“Anything else?” she asks briskly. “How’s the team?”

“Doing okay,” he replies. “Look after yourself. Skye should be in touch any day now, she’s on her way back from her assignment.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Jemma says, and hangs up.

When she opens the door again, Fitz is still curled up on the couch in front of some reality garbage. He hasn’t noticed her go or return, and when she sits beside him, she’s treated to a sleepy smile. She smiles back, because she can’t help herself, and pats his knee affectionately.

“I didn’t ask about your day,” he says abruptly.

“What?”

“When you asked how my day was,” he clarifies. “I didn’t ask how yours was.”

“It was fine,” she says, brushing him off. “Boring, really.” She stops any more questions by squeezing his shoulder. It always seems to distract him, and soon he’s staring at the screen again. A few minutes pass, and he glances at her.

“I didn’t ask about your day,” he says again. Jemma looks at her hands, trying to stop them from twisting in her lap. He can tell when she’s worried.

“I had a good day, Fitz,” she says, gently. “Let’s just watch TV, okay?”

He smiles, and lapses back into silence.


End file.
